Australian Secrets. Fiona McCallum
Читать онлайн книгу.
with a flushed face.
‘Yes I am. Excuse me,’ she said, as she felt a gentle bump from Yvonne. She sat back to allow the waiter to put a bowl in front of her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, picking up her spoon to tackle pumpkin soup, complete with an artistic swirl of cream and sprig of parsley. Standard mass-produced convention centre fare. No doubt the next course would be a choice of either chicken or beef. She pitied the vegetarians; their meals always looked like ghastly afterthoughts.
While they waited for dessert, a fifteen minute presentation was given. Nicola and Yvonne couldn’t see the screens from where they were sitting, and neither could be bothered shuffling around. But both Tim and Bianca dutifully moved their chairs. You’ll learn, Nicola thought to herself.
While everyone’s attention was fixed on the speaker, Yvonne gave Nicola a gentle nudge and whispered into her ear. ‘Hey, have you got yourself one of these yet?’
Nicola peered down into the handbag Yvonne was holding open below the edge of the table, out of sight from everyone else. Inside was a long glowing green stick. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what it was, but then she realised, and had to clap a hand to her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud. Of course! This was one of those ‘little friends’ she’d overheard a couple of the girls talking about in the office toilets a few times.
‘Jesus, put that thing away,’ she wanted to cry, but at the same time she was curious to get it out and have a damn good look. But that just wasn’t something you did in a room full of boring old accountant types. And, ew, it had been, ew! She cringed at the thought.
‘Don’t worry, it won’t bite.’ Yvonne chuckled. ‘My friend’s selling them; apparently they’re the best thing since sliced bread. Even comes with batteries so you can put it to use right away. Thirty-nine ninety-five including postage,’ she added with a wink.
Jesus, Nicola thought, she could be talking about Tupperware. Were lots of women really buying them? Was no woman being sexually satisfied anymore? She leaned over for another look, trying not to attract attention.
‘Um, have you …?’
‘Not yet.’ Yvonne snapped her handbag shut just as a waiter appeared beside her carrying a tray full of wedges of lemon meringue pie with generous knobs of thick cream. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve given it a whirl.’
Turning to her dessert, Nicola dug her spoon in. ‘Yum, one of my favourites.’ And a fine example it was. Hmm, a perfect balance of sweet, savoury and bitterness. Not that she could cook; she just knew what she liked.
As she ate, her thoughts were still with Yvonne and the ‘little friend’. God, wouldn’t Scott freak out if he found one in her bedside drawer – especially if she went with one of the extralarge versions. It would almost be worth it to see his reaction, she thought, running her tongue around the spoon in her mouth.
Perhaps there was a story in the waning of sexual interest in upwardly-mobile corporate couples. Maybe it wasn’t a conscious decision at all for her demographic to be putting off having children. She looked at Tim and Bianca, wondered what they saw when they looked at her: a successful career woman? Or someone who had let the chance for a family slip through her fingers?
Finally the tempting aromas of coffee were wafting around the table – a sure sign the evening was winding up. She longed for a cup of the silky, bitter tar but knew she’d never get to sleep if she did.
‘You wouldn’t happen to have peppermint tea, would you?’ she asked the waiter.
‘Oh, peppermint tea, yes please,’ a chorus around the table chimed.
‘I’ll check,’ the young man said through gritted teeth.
‘I’d really appreciate it,’ she said, beaming her best television smile. Thank God the night was almost over; Nicola wasn’t sure she could play partner and interested wallflower much longer.
Scott hadn’t said two words to her all night; why the hell had he insisted on her even coming?
Nicola woke to a headache of disappointment. She’d always felt that a hangover was only worth suffering if a worthy investment had been made, but last night she’d only had two glasses of white with dinner. That was the trouble with bad wine.
She rolled over to find further disappointment. Scott’s side of the bed was empty.
Kitchen clatter informed her he was making coffee. The small carriage clock confirmed she’d managed to sleep in. It was eight-thirty.
She picked up the small wooden picture frame from beside the clock. It held a copy of the same faded polaroid as the one in her office. She stroked the baby’s innocent sleeping face, her face, which showed nothing of the impending abandonment.
Why had her mother given her up? Had she done it voluntarily or under duress? What about the man or boy involved: did he know he had a daughter who had been given up? Maybe her mother had been raped. Jesus, Nicola couldn’t bear that thought.
When her adoption information eventually arrived, it would only give her names; not these more emotional details. For that she’d have to meet her, whoever she was.
The thought sent a shiver down Nicola’s spine. But what if she was dead? Nicola had always refused to believe that. No, somewhere out there she had another mother, and hopefully a father too. She’d felt sure of it right from the start, and would continue to believe it until she knew otherwise.
Scott’s frame filled the doorway. ‘Don’t forget we’re meeting Bob and Sandy for breakfast at Becco at ten – you’d better get cracking.’
‘Come back to bed,’ Nicola cooed, patting the emptiness beside her.
‘There are some emails I need to deal with.’
‘Surely they can wait.’
‘No, Nicola, they can’t – they’re important.’
And there it was; that tone she hated. Nicola felt like pointing out that she was important too, but cautioned herself. The effects of last night’s below-average wine were probably making her overly sensitive. It was easier just to let it go.
She climbed out of bed, and as she padded naked to the bathroom, Scott started making the vacated bed. Personally she preferred to air it – as Ruth had taught her – but again it was easier to bite her tongue and not be subjected to another jibe about her lack of tidiness.
Bob was a golf buddy of Scott’s; Nicola adored him. He and his wife, Sandy, who was an absolute hoot, ran their own business importing high-end Asian furniture and homewares. Nicola wasn’t keen on the style of furniture, but had bought a pair of lovely paintings for the lounge room wall.
There were rarely any customers in the shop and Nicola didn’t see how they made enough money to sustain their lavish lifestyle.
Yet somehow they managed to have Sundays and two days off a week; Bob so he could achieve a single-figure golf handicap and Sandy so she could shop with the girls.
Nicola loved spending time with Sandy; she was real. Well, as real as a boob job, liposuction, collagen lips and an incredible fake tan.
Shopping with Sandy meant you’d never end up with something the tabloids could poke fun at. ‘No, no, no sweetie,’ she’d say. ‘You look like an old Jersey cow in that.’ Or, ‘That colour makes you look seasick.’ And she was always right.
Nicola once suggested she get into the fashion industry. Sandy’s reply: ‘And have to deal with morons who think they look two sizes smaller than they are? At least furniture can’t tell you it looks fine when it doesn’t.’
No, there was no arguing with Sandy – she had the world and her place in it well and truly